


The First of Many Times

by TeaHouseMoon (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bottom Sherlock Holmes, First Time, John is 20, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mention of Victor Trevor - Freeform, Mycroft is a cockblock, Sex, Sherlock is 17, Teenlock, Teenlock AU, Top John Watson, Unsafe Sex, Use suspension of disbelief I just wanted to write the sex, Virgin Sherlock, please don't read if this bothers you, they don't use condoms, twelve in twelve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 01:48:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5808622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/TeaHouseMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You do remember he's only seventeen, Mr Watson?”</p><p>The words had etched themselves in John’s mind, and stayed there, since two nights before, when Sherlock’s older brother had caught them kissing - well, a little more than kissing, if he had to be honest – out in the back porch of their house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First of Many Times

**Author's Note:**

> My entry for the January prompt of the TwelveInTwelve challenge! 
> 
> Thanks to the always lovely @burning_up_a_sun for betaing this bit of nonsense for me! What would I do without you. <3

 

 

“You do remember he's only seventeen, Mr Watson?”

 

The words had etched themselves in John’s mind, and stayed there, since two nights before, when Sherlock’s older brother had caught them kissing - well, a little more than kissing, if he had to be honest – out in the back porch of their house.

 

It had been embarrassing, to say the least. John was a twenty year old man, honest and hardworking, a future doctor, planning to enlist in the British Army to help in missions – and yet he'd felt like a kid being caught stealing from a shop. He'd been so hard in his half-open trousers, because damn it, Sherlock was gorgeous and moaning in his arms, how could he not react accordingly? But his arousal had vanished in a millisecond right there and then as if he'd been doused with a bucket of ice water.

 

 

***

 

 

The night had started with a nice dinner, over at their favourite little restaurant in Hampstead. Their one-year anniversary. John wanted to pay for the both of them – Sherlock usually did; he had an allowance and a trust fund in his name, and no matter how loudly John protested he seemed to want to drain it little by little anyway, so they may as well - but this time, John insisted. Sherlock had lowered his eyes, demurred, but John knew he was just being purposely prissy: Sherlock loved to be the centre of John’s attention, constantly.

John had bought them a bottle of the nicest wine he could afford, had enjoyed getting Sherlock a little squiffy. The kissing had started in the car – initiated by Sherlock, first, in the car park, his lips swollen and sweet and wanting to be bitten. It was John's turn when they pulled up by Sherlock’s street. He could not get enough of the kissing, of the feeling that gripped his body when he deepened the contact and Sherlock moaned from his throat, little needy pleading sounds that, in John's ears, were an invitation for more, clothes off, hands on skin, fingers and tongue and teeth in and over the most delicate corners of his body.

By the time they separated John was breathing heavily, pupils blown wide, eyes practically black. Sherlock has smiled, deviously. Like only he could.

“Come with me?”

“Sherlock. We can't,” John had breathed. Forced himself to ignore his screaming body – cock, instinct, animal brain. “You know your parents said that--

“You know my parents aren't in.” Sherlock was already opening his car door, pulling at John’s arm to dislodge him from the driver’s seat. “We won't be seen.”

And John found himself following Sherlock, like the besotted fool he was. Out in the tidy, prim and proper back porch of the Holmes villa they stood, Sherlock with his back against the white painted wall, raven curls striking against it and against the paleness of his face, John on him, kissing and kissing, the moonlight the only way to see each other.

They kissed, missed each other’s mouths at times, kissed someplace else. John licked down the curve of the delicate throat, growled approval when Sherlock tilted his chin up and more skin was exposed. Bit once, first; then sank his teeth in; felt himself get even harder, if possible, when Sherlock moaned in pained lust.

He kissed apologetically, kissed lower on the tendon, down on the bone and then back up at the base of the throat. Bit down again. Held there, breathing hard and moaning quietly.

“John.” Sherlock's beautiful dexterous hands slithered down in between them to unbutton John's trousers, pressed hard against the bulge there and rubbed, up and down.

“Sherlock, you’re testing me”, John warned, laughed humourlessly. He was so gone he couldn't even see or smell or hear anything that wasn't Sherlock.

“It’s my intention to,” Sherlock replied, as cheekily as expected.

As if John was about to fuck him there. As if he would take Sherlock’s virginity like this, out on a porch, trembling in the night air, and scared of being seen by prying eyes.

“Oh, yes, you would.” It was Sherlock, reading his mind, as usual. John kissed him, holding a slim wrist roughly against the wall with his own hand like _how dare you, shut up, stop tempting me, you minx._

“You do remember he's only seventeen, Mr Watson?”

The voice had cut like a knife, sliced through the air like a shard. John had frozen on the spot, heart suddenly hammering in his chest so hard that he felt lightheaded. Sherlock’s head had come up, his eyes on fire and blazing in the direction of his meddling, ever-overbearing big brother. His voice had boomed, deep and commanding for someone his age.

“Mycroft!”

Mycroft had not been looking at Sherlock – John felt his eyes on his back like knives. He let Sherlock’s hand go, took a step back. Did not turn.

“This has got nothing to do with you, Mycroft! Back the hell off!” Sherlock shouted again, his face contracted in distress, frown deep between his eyes and on top of the bridge of his nose.

“You can scream and shout all you like, little brother, but you know the rules. You know what Mother thinks about this, and she will not be happy once I tell her.”

John was frowning; his face rigid. Sherlock's eyes moved to him for a moment, then back to staring furiously at his brother.

“Father will like it even less. I've just sent communication in fact – John, would you like to stay for a night cap with your future _in-laws_?”

“He's lying, John, he hasn't said anything,” Sherlock said, cheeks red with fury and eyes still on Mycroft. “You will pay for this, Mycroft!”

John grimaced, fixed his jacket so that it covered his waist. Stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Right. I'm going.”

He scuttled away with no look back at Mycroft, and he knew that Sherlock stood there, breathing hard in frustration, tearful eyes watching him leave.

 

 

 

***

 

 

I hope you're still talking to me. – J

 

_You're not the person my wrath is reserved for at the moment. Don't flatter yourself. – SH_

Just checking. I'm sorry I left it to the day after to text you. I had to cool down. – J  
  
Sherlock? – J

 

_Whatever. – SH_

Sherlock? Are you sure you're okay? – J

 

 

 

John had already begun to frown heavily when Sherlock's call came. He jumped a little at the shrill sound coming from his phone – he’d forgotten he'd raised the volume of the ringer since he'd started falling asleep late at night on his school books. Once, he'd snoozed for slightly too long and missed four of Sherlock's calls, and as a consequence had to get Sherlock out of the biggest sulk he'd worked himself into since they got together.

“Of course I'm not okay, John.” As Sherlock’s incipits went, this wasn't even too bad, all things considered.

“Look, I'm sorry,” John said, with a sigh. “I just couldn't stay, you know that. Please tell me you haven't been fighting with Mycroft this whole time, the last thing I want is for your parents to-“

“Oh, forget Mycroft! And forget my parents!” Sherlock almost shouted – John could see his hand waving with impatience, so vividly. “That's not what I called about, you know that's all nonsense.”

“Okay.” John took another deep breath. The chewed nail on his thumb wanted more biting, and he brought it to his mouth.

“The reason I called is – I want you to come over and have sex with me.”

“Sherlock!”

“What's wrong with that? You're my boyfriend and I want to have sex with you. It's a perfectly natural thing.”

“I know it is,” John sighed, rubbing a hand over his forehand. He felt his jeans starting to get tighter, _already._ “Love, I know you want to. I want it, too. But you've seen what happened last night – no way in hell I am going to be let in to the house after Mycroft-“

Sherlock huffed on the other end of the line. “Of course I'm not going to announce you, am I? It will be in secret. You've snuck in through my window before – did you forget when you weren't allowed to take me out because I was _still sixteen_?” He coloured the end of the sentence with his personal shade of scorn – at the time, he'd described that particular imposition as ‘ridiculous and anachronistic’, but John had been resolute that he wouldn't break the rules Sherlock’s mother had imposed - at least, not that early in their relationship.

Of course John remembered that particular episode. They'd locked the door and stayed in Sherlock’s bed until six in the morning, kissing under the covers for most of that time, and it was the first time John had pushed the boundaries, stroked Sherlock’s bare chest, kissed him there. The thought of his beautiful back and chest, arched in spasms of pleasure, still made John hard to this day.

“You do want me to die a horrible death.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“Your parents will hear.”

“We’ll do it tomorrow night. My parents have another of their stupid line-dancing evenings.”

“Mycroft is waiting exactly for this! He'll set the secret services after me. And I _will_ die a horrible death.”

“Oh please! He's just an office clerk – he has no influence whatsoever no matter what he says. Don't be a wimp.”

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock huffed, loudly.

“Do you know what, John? I feel like you don't really want to. And if this is the case you should tell me and not string me along.”

“Sherlock!”

“It's fine. That guy in my Science class, Victor Trevor? He's into me. He's been trying to seduce me – he wouldn't hesitate to come and fuck me if I asked.”

“Shut up, Sherlock. I mean it.” John made his voice commanding. He'd had enough. “I will come over tomorrow night. And we’ll talk about it.” He made sure to put weight on the word ‘talk’; of course he wanted to fuck Sherlock, but he wasn't going to do it as a result of giving in to a strop.

On the other end of the phone, Sherlock breathed, then exhaled.

“Okay.”

 

 

***

 

The climb up to Sherlock’s window was a familiar feat. John had done that quite a few times before, yet he never failed to be surprised at how Sherlock always managed to set the rickety ladder back from where his father moved it (down by the garden shed, away from his room) without anyone noticing; John's hands shook, with anticipation – and definitely fear.

_Mycroft is going to see me, of course he is. And then he's going to kill me._

He hadn't even got the whole of his body inside the room – his left foot was still half hanging from the ledge if he recalled right – that Sherlock had already thrown himself at him, arms around his shoulders, lithe body against John’s chest. Full lips on John’s lips, kisses thirsty and frantic. John kissed back for a few seconds – there was no way he wouldn’t – but then, gently, pulled Sherlock back by his arms. Turned to shut the window, pull the heavy curtains closed.

“Hey,” Sherlock said, with a smile. He only had the desk lamp on in his room, and the amber light made his face look soft, his eyes bluer.

John looked him up and down. Sherlock wore his light blue silk dressing gown over just a pair of black underwear.

Nothing else.

“Sherlock.” John made to roll his eyes, forced his gaze to the floor - couldn't help but let it slide down Sherlock’s body in the process. The dressing gown was tied on his waist, but so loosely that the front was open on his chest, edges showing the unmarred ivory skin beneath, barely covering the nipples.

John planted his eyes onto the floor, bit the inside of his lower lip.

“Come on, John. We both know why you're here?” Sherlock smiled, impish.

“I told you I was coming here to talk.”

Sherlock frowned. Took a breath, rolled his eyes once.

“Okay. Let's talk, then?”

John stared hard. “No. Take me seriously, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinked. He didn't reply, but his face gentled – John knew it meant he was listening.

“I need you to understand why I feel uncomfortable about sneaking around behind your parents’ backs. Why I feel uncomfortable with – being caught by your brother.”

“I told you – forget about them, forget about my brother-“

“No, Sherlock,” John raised his voice a little; Sherlock shut his mouth. “It's important to me. Don't dismiss it.”

His gaze had wanted to stray downward, to the enticing, half-nude body on display right in front of him, but he managed to hold it on to Sherlock’s face, staring hard into his eyes.

Sherlock actually looked contrite.

“I'm sorry.”

John sighed. Bit his lower lip.

“You're important to me, Sherlock.”

A hand reached out to him; fingertips skimmed his cheek. Retreated.

“You’re- important to me, too. John,” Sherlock said, wrapping his arms around his own torso, almost awkwardly. “You’re – you’re so important, that I wanted,” he exhaled; “I want to do it with you. Take this – step, with you – before I go away to Uni, before we live in two different cities and before there’s hours and hundreds of miles between us.”

He lowered his gaze. John reached out, took one of the big, graceful hands in his own. He’d never thought about that.

“Sherlock…”

Sherlock’s hand clutched at John’s, squeezed his fingers; he reached closer, down, until his lips were a breath away from John’s. His eyes closed, he nuzzled into John’s cheek.

“I wanted to be yours. Before all that.”

Even as he closed the gap and joined their lips, John wondered if they had said enough. Wondered if he'd made his point across. Remembered it was Sherlock he was talking about – remembered he was clever, cleverer than everyone he knew.

His hands flew to Sherlock’s waist on their own accord, wrapped around his iliac bones and held on as the kiss deepened, became demanding. When faced with an armful of Sherlock, John failed to reason properly, his brain misfiring - or perhaps getting everything right, depending on the point of view. His hand travelled up along the hem of the dressing gown, lifted it aside to expose a pink-brown nipple; his thumb stroked over it, flicked, circled. Sherlock moaned into his mouth and John's fingers pinched, squeezed, flicked until he moaned again.

When the kiss broke John wanted to keep looking into Sherlock’s eyes, but his gaze was drawn to the tight nipple, to his own hand pushing the gown aside to expose the other.

“Please make love to me.”

Sherlock followed his plea with a kiss. Then another.

John looked at him. Bent a little, took a nipple into his mouth.

“Oh,” Sherlock exhaled. His hands went around John’s head, into his hair. John sucked, slowly. Then kissed across, to the other nipple. Laved that too with warm saliva.

“Please make love to me…” Sherlock whispered again, his voice low and warm, his chest rocked by deep breaths as John still kissed his chest.

“You’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

John felt as good as drunk. Had he not, he’d have protested more; because of the situation, because of Mycroft. But of course, in reality, he wanted to do exactly what Sherlock was asking him to. And so, in his drunken-without-wine state of mind, he let Sherlock take his hand, guide him to his neatly-made bed. Watched him pull the bedsheets back and then turn, push the dressing gown off his own shoulders while looking at John expectantly.

“You need to take off your clothes, too.”

John smiled, somewhat nervously. He obeyed; pulled his jumper off, then shirt, belt, shoes, trousers. Underwear. He looked straight at Sherlock when they both stood, naked, one in front of the other, bathed amber in the feeble light of the table lamp.

They were both hard; John ached to take his cock in hand already.

“You’re so big,” Sherlock said with a slight side-smirk, and took a step towards John.

John smirked back, though a bit self-consciously. He growled, low in his throat.

“You knew that.”

Still smiling, Sherlock took another step, his eyes glimmering with mischief.

“Well. No point in doing it for the first time with someone, unless they’re really, _really big._ ”

The purr in his voice went straight to John’s insides, and he let Sherlock kiss him, kissed him back, cradling his head with one hand and his back with the other. The contact with their skin, bare and feverishly hot, was electric, and he bit Sherlock’s bottom lip, pushed his tongue into his mouth, made him moan and growled back as a response.

“Bed, now.”

He followed Sherlock under the covers; lay behind him, wrapped him in his arms until the younger boy’s back was flush against his chest. He felt him giggle – and he knew it to be more out of anticipation, perhaps nervousness, than actual mirth. He smiled wider against the side of his throat, rubbed his mouth over Sherlock’s nape.

“What you were doing the other day. On my neck,” Sherlock started. Shivered a little in John’s arms. “I want you to do it again.”

“What, the biting?” John lifted his head a bit, murmured. “Didn’t it hurt?”

Sherlock strained his neck to look behind himself at John.

“If I were scared of a little pain, do you think I’d be here right now with you?”. His hand reached back, cradled the back of John’s head to hold him in place. John frowned; and Sherlock laughed quietly, his eyes glimmering again, this time with happy, impish playfulness. “That huge thing between your legs is going to hurt, when you put it in me,” he purred against John's lips. “I will scream and scream.”

John’s hand on Sherlock’s belly gave a sharp pinch to the tight skin there; made Sherlock yelp.

“You berk.” He closed his eyes, lowered his own voice. “If you keep taking the mick like this, then maybe you don’t really want this, hmmm…?”

Sherlock attacked his mouth at that, straining his neck even further back to kiss him deeply, moaning louder and more demandingly into the kiss. John smiled against his lip, felt his cock become even harder if possible. He was enjoying himself more than he thought he would.

When Sherlock finally let his mouth go, he set upon doing what his boyfriend had asked: he licked down the side of his jaw, kissed his way along the throat; licked the skin just above the sharp clavicle, and then sank his teeth in it. He felt Sherlock jerk in his arms, heard him let out a low moan from deep within his throat.

“Maybe while I’m having you, I’ll bite you some more. I’ll bite you right here,” he murmured, rubbing his nose against Sherlock’s nape, through the tuft of thick curls there. “Like the lions in those nature programs? So that you can’t escape.”

He felt the hitch in Sherlock’s ribcage before he heard him start to laugh; laughed along with him, squeezed him tighter against his chest, high in giddiness, and a sort of nervousness that felt good.

“Fuck me, you nerd,” Sherlock whispered on his mouth a moment later, when the giggles subsided, his blue eyes staring into John’s as he looked over his shoulder.

John found his hand shook a little as he turned to reach behind himself, on the nightstand, for the tube of lube. His fingers trembled still as he coated them in the liquid; he told himself to get a grip, because he’d done this before.

“I’m just going to get you ready now,” he said, feeling a bit awkward – but Sherlock only nodded, laying still and keeping his eyes closed.

One finger, to start; John made sure to take his time. He kissed Sherlock’s neck when he switched to two fingers; kept his eyes on him, on his face, as he massaged and loosened and opened.

Soon, Sherlock was squirming.

“When?”

“When you’re comfortable with three fingers, first,” John said , cringing a bit at the necessity for details. He’d known Sherlock would get impatient soon. Things never went this way in movies, did they? But he wasn’t going to ruin Sherlock’s first time, for any reason in the world.

Three fingers, and he felt Sherlock’s whole body tense.

“All right?”

“Feels like you’re splitting me open.” Sherlock bit out, eyes still closed, breath laboured. “ _Feels so good.”_

John made sure to keep his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s face, watched his expression as he scissored his fingers cautiously.

“John, please,” Sherlock breathed out then. He still hadn’t opened his eyes. “Please, do it now.”

And like in a daze, with trembling hands and hammering heart, John just obeyed. He slicked himself generously, lined up; took a deep breath to ground himself – he felt as if he was dreaming.

“Please” – and he chuckled, “ _scream,_ if it hurts too much.”

He heard Sherlock’s laugh as he started to push in. He felt the whole slim, smooth body tense, whispered ‘relax…’ against his ear; bit really hard on his own bottom lip to bear the tightness and warmth and hopefully stop himself from finishing before it even started.

“John….John…”

“Hurts?” John murmured against Sherlock’s throat.

Sherlock nodded. “A little. Ow. A little bit.”

“Breathe. Just breathe. In. Out.”

And as soon as Sherlock did breathe everything felt less tense. John slid all the way in; thought he was going to die. Had he not been worried about Sherlock being in pain, this would have been the most perfect he’d ever felt in his life.

“Shhh…”, he whispered once more against the smooth warm throat. Sherlock managed a smile.

“I feel so full. So full, John.” Sherlock’s eyes hadn’t opened yet. “I feel like – like I really belong to you,” and he turned his head, finally opened his eyes. “Feels _so good_.”

They kissed, and John felt his heart skip a beat. He tried a couple of light thrusts – Sherlock cried out quietly in his mouth – and he thrust again, set a rhythm. Until finally he managed to pull back almost all the way, push all the way in.

He’d never felt so good in his whole life.

His hand held Sherlock still by pushing with the palm down against his abdomen and into himself; the other arm lay under Sherlock, fingers entwined with the younger boy’s, having almost lost his feeling in the whole limb by now. He chuckled as he breathed hard, sweat around his temples, felt so tired and so full of energy and adrenaline at the same time.

“Don’t forget the bite,” Sherlock mumbled. He had his eyes newly closed, but his cheekbones pulled tight and the corners of his mouth betrayed the smile currently on his lips.  
John’s right hand, the one under Sherlock, untangled from Sherlock’s fingers and he pulled up a little, pushed with his hips until Sherlock almost rolled onto his belly. With the free hand John brushed the curls away urgently, without stopping the thrusts from his pelvis – he was grunting now – and he bit the skin there, on the nape, hard enough for Sherlock to feel it, and moan, and for him to moan loud in response.

When he came, deep inside Sherlock, and Sherlock convulsed around him, he felt like he was going to pass out – and it was the best feeling in the world.

 

 

 

Once they had the chance to catch their breaths, pull from each other’s bodies – ah, that had been more painful than they’d thought – they lay facing each other, kissed for some time. The sheets felt damp, too warm, wet with sweat and come. Sherlock would have been annoyed, had he not been so satisfied, contented, proud. John knew that, and felt the same, felt like forgetting all his worries and his stress - like he just wanted to be ecstatic forever.

“I knew Mycroft would fail to interrupt us this time,” Sherlock joked in between lazy kisses.

“Ah. I forgot about that. A painful death awaits me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you have to fuck me again many many times before that happens. Then we can talk.”

John ended the last of a long string of kisses. Pulled back to look at Sherlock from his own pillow

“I don’t want to talk about Mycroft. Victor Trevor, on the other hand? That, I want to talk about.”

With that he reached over, grabbed Sherlock’s phone from the nightstand; held it high over the both of them, pretended to mess with the buttons, grumbled ‘He’ll regret trying to pull my boyfriend!’, while Sherlock protested and tried to snatch the phone back from him, and they laughed, and laughed, until they fell asleep, stuck together and forgetful of everything but each other.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
